Tulu Build Guide — Morimens

The young King slumbers upon his throne. Upon waking, he issues his decrees, his authority reaching every corner of the world. Yet before the sun has set, the King is already weary. He has grown tired of his own power and transcendent wisdom; tired of the fanatical worship of his followers, and of the long dreams that have stretched across aeons. None know what he witnessed during his long sleep, but they should be grateful for the bliss of their own ignorance.

Until now, the oldest known human civilization was believed to have originated in Mesopotamia, a fact supported by a wealth of solid archaeological evidence. However, humanity is never content with the known. When facing the vast, black seas of infinity, we do not hesitate to set sail into the unknown. Perhaps this is not the first time we have been granted such warnings or hints. Theosophists once proposed a chilling hypothesis: that the cosmos is an awe-inspiring cycle, and our current world—and humanity itself—is but a transient link within it. Far too many things have perished silently in these cycles, leaving not a shred of evidence behind. This is, in fact, a mercy; some forces are so ancient and extreme that even their lingering vestiges could exert an immeasurable and devastating influence on our era. Take, for instance, the accidental discovery made by the crew of the Vigilant on the floor of the Southern Ocean. It has pushed our understanding of prehistoric civilization back by tens of thousands of years. From this, we have learned of a civilization—complete with its own state, monarch, and peculiar faith—that was swallowed by a global deluge and has long lain dormant beneath the waves. Were it not for the Mystia Treaty Committee's assistance in containment and censorship, human history might have been rewritten. But the world as it stands is not yet prepared for such a cataclysmic revelation.

Some Awakeners struggle to adapt to their new vessels and lives, while others embrace the change, pivoting eagerly into their second life. Tulu belongs to neither category. Never has any Awakener displayed such blatant, naked indifference toward the modern world. His aptitude is peerless; perhaps he has already peered through the veil of current crises and global shifts. Yet, he prefers to lose himself in the depths of sleep. Despite having no desire for fame, he has become a figure of renown among both humans and Awakeners at the university. Researchers scrutinize his every move, churning out paper after paper on his behavior. The Departments of Archaeology and Astronomy frequently send invitations to academic symposia, almost always requesting him by name. Tulu's influence among his fellow Awakeners is equally profound: Murphy grows sullen at the mere sight of him; Goliath seems perpetually locked in a silent, private rivalry with him; and Miriam treats his every word as divine law. To all of this, he maintains a singular lack of affect—harboring no expectations, making no demands. He grants the occasional request only as the whim strikes him; otherwise, he remains unreachable.

When he was chosen from among thousands of children and ascended the throne, Tulu was not even as tall as the blue stone throne. Yet, no one dared to question his indifference or his perpetual slumber; all understood these to be the signs of a King listening to the divine. The young King's decisions invariably solved every hardship, and his prophecies never failed to pass. Tulu accepted this life: entering the dreams of a "God," meeting an existence beyond comprehension, ruling his nation through oracles, and sinking once more into sleep. The gears of this civilization turned on the will of the divine. He was content to simply follow the current—to be nothing more than the sole "messenger" for a higher power. However, Tulu held one prophecy back, the only one he never spoke: that the nation would be destroyed by a deluge, and their civilization would be entombed beneath the sea. Because he knew all, he knew that their destruction was immutable. But he resolved that, in their final hours, they should not live in terror and despair. This was his final decree—made not as an "Divine Envoy," but as a King.

His transcendent wisdom exacts a heavy toll on his body; he must sleep for more than fifteen hours a day, and even in his waking hours, he is haunted by a persistent lethargy. Within his dreams, he sometimes feels the fury of the gods; at other times, he glimpses the intersection of fractured timelines. Occasionally, he even wanders into the furthest depths, coming face-to-face with the Divine itself. He has never sought their revelations or prophecies, yet no matter how he tries to evade them, the visions always come to pass. He never asked for offerings. To be worshiped, to be feared—these were burdens thrust upon him by others, and they hold no interest for him. To be reborn was nothing more than an unwelcome interruption of an eternal dream. No need for invocation. No need for prayer.